Drunk
by zzn-gr
Summary: Ginny Weasley trying to hold her composure during war. Just a one shot really.


She was drunk; utterly, completely, absolutely, royally drunk. But she still had a rich vocabulary, which probably meant there was always space for another round. That must have been her third bottle - or was it the fourth? How could a creature this small possess a liver that large was best left for the coroners to discover. Such a noble death for a Gryffindor - red wine overdose. Now why should her voice of conscience bear such a disgustingly suspicious resemblance to the voice of Draco-the-ferret- Malfoy?  
  
Positive thinking girl. By this time tomorrow you'll probably lie in a cosy coffin enjoying mournful praises in a forced family meeting consisted of devastated Weasleys - save for Molly and Arthur Weasley that is. They had their fare share of enjoying praises a year ago.  
  
What will Robert fill in in the cause of death column? Surely not red wine intoxication. Well, Dr. Robert Wilkisson is notoriously famous for his discretion. He'll work something out. But he'll have to do it for free. I've already composed my goodbye-to-the-universe-speech and I'm not postponing it for a decade to save the money needed for a death certificate with a descent cause.  
  
He'll do it. He's not just a money gridy bastard. He's a good man deep inside - unfathomably deep. He just has a different interpretation for Hippocrate's oath - not subsequently wrong. Where are all those abortion- against freaks now? How would you like to bear a child courtesy of a rape, missy? Or raise it in the middle of a war, eh? No time for love stories, rose-cheeked babies and dippers changing now.  
  
It was all good two months ago. As good as thinks can be during a war, at least. She opened the clinic at 10 and closed it at 17. She harvested the greenhouse, brewed the potions, stock the storage, kept the medical archives updated. Strange medical archives; Never a name, nor an illness description; only actions taken, therapy administered, known allergies, bill. Combining the enormous amounts withdrawn from various Gringotts accounts to a therapy described in encoded scribes never provided her enquiring mind with sufficient answers as to the nature of illnesses Robert treated.  
  
She knew he tread a thin line between legal and illegal. But one couldn't exactly apparate to St. Mungo's with a dragon burn, or ask a love potion at the local apothecary. Not to mention the abortions. Too many abortions. Seemed like carrying a child was a curse. He busied himself with infertility problems before the war. Of course it was wrong to rummage around his notes, but it's not like he would answer if asked. The man didn't even let her enter the examination chamber. She has been closer to patients being a sister to 6 disruptive brothers than while a promising medi-wizarding apprentice - diminished to an obedient medi-wizarding secretary.  
  
Typically, Robert fulfilled his part. He taught her things. How to brew properly, how to diagnose effectively, how to keep a calm façade against a bloody pulp that used to be a fully-effective body member. Not to mix therapies, not to trust sleeping potions and calming draughts. Always trust the patient's evaluation more than scanning charms. Never question her instinct. Never involve herself emotionally with a patient. Not even his owl.  
  
Problem was there was never a patient present. They talked during breakfast, dinner, lunch, coffee break. They talked a lot. He commented every case he had. But only when no one was around. If there was she was Gin the house elf. They argued a lot. She didn't want to become a theoretic. She wanted to become a medi-witch - which was a tad difficult without actual practice. Robert believed it was dangerous. He insisted she couldn't stomach it. Ha! she who had read all Bill's books, she who had faced Voldemort as a first year, she who hadn't shed a tear at her parents funeral, she who had found Colin slaughtered to pieces. There was nothing she couldn't stomach. And it was not like the patients would mind. Everyone knew Robert had an apprentice - the invisible Gin. The only way to meet her was floo at a moment Robert was else occupied.  
  
Robert was available 24/7. He could wake up at 4 in the morning, perform a life threatening operation till 5 and then go back to sleep. Her bedroom was situated just above the side entrance. The one, night visitors seemed to know only too well. For all the nights she stayed awake she could never discern a face. And even though her room was just above the clinic's main examination chamber she could never make out a word either. Probably silencing charms. Much as Robert discussed all his cases with her he never referred to the night visitors.  
  
Two months ago, she had finally convinced him. Maybe taking advantage of his exhaustion but convinced him no less. First time he called her during an abortion. She didn't talk, nor help, just observed. Second time Paula was brought. A sweet little angel, all blond hair and blue eyes, no more than 6 years old. Ginny knew her; she lived just across the street. After she left, Robert explained that her injuries were self-inflicted. The sweet little angel was an unregistered werewolf. If her parents turned her in to the Ministry, they should either emigrate or let her be eliminated. Voldemort having recruited all the werewolves, British Ministry had the bright idea to banish them completely.  
  
And there was always Frau Helga. A 140 years old gothic figure that came by for her monthly anti-wrinkle treatment. War or no war vanity was something Frau Helga was born with. And like she said this was not the first war of her life but probably the last so she'd better look good. Now that Ginny met most of the patients she could finally see the humour in Robert's medical filenames. Frau Helga was "Hitler in white" and Paula "the yellow pest". She had never met the "dark crow" though, nor the "butterbeer kitty" and she probably never would. They were only two of the dozens of night visitors to whom Wilkisson clinic owed its existence - always judging by the bills they were called to pay at the end of the month.  
  
She never let Robert down. She could keep her facial expressions under check whether facing a dead cold body or a barely breathing one. Last month she filled in 5 death certificates. There were always people eager to keep Ministry officials' poking noses out of their family business. What should Brenda Woolworth say if asked about her daughter's suicide? That Angela accidentally found out her lover was the Death Eater responsible for her father's death. No, Brenda already had a husband and daughter to mourn. There were no sentiments left to spare on hating the man who actually caused it - her almost son-in-law, the father of her one and only unborn grandchild.  
  
Whatever the story behind was Ginny prepared the false death certificates without even flinching. And Robert was signing them. She had done the same with the Smiths. They had found their son's body in their front yard. They were both Aurors, well-respected aurors. They couldn't exactly go away with a dead body bearing the dark mark in his left forearm - even if it was their only heir's body.  
  
Her traits were by no means limited to discretion and aloofness. Ginny Weasley was a natural. Even Robert admitted that much as soon as he let her deal with patients on her own. Robert, who had finally come to appreciate her. When she first moved in with him - just after the funeral actually, he was barely speaking to her. He owed Arthur Weasley one - his life basically, but taking an apprentice was against his Cosmo theory. Then Arthur Weasley died - murdered is such an evil sounding word - and someone had to take care of his youngest offspring. It's not like she could afford attending a University right now. Finding a job and staying at the Burrow on her own wasn't the wisest or safest decision either. And she didn't want to go live with her older brothers. And she was already bugging him for an apprentice position for over a year now.  
  
But all good things finally come to an end. And this one came to an end yesterday night. Night visitors appeared only in pairs. Or alone. Rarely in trios. Last night a dozen of them walked in, one barely able to support the other in an upright position. Night visitors were usually quick; quick and quiet. Last night they were wrecking worse havoc than Fred and George caught in an inspiration fit. While night visitors were at the clinic, she was strictly forbidden of making a sound, let alone an appearance. Last night as soon as the mysterious night visitors entered, Robert came up to her room. He had the honesty to inform her that by deciding to help him out her life might be in danger. But he needed all the help he could get.  
  
He didn't warn her though for the apocalypse that followed. As soon as she descended the stairs she found herself face to face with what must have been 15 to 20 . people . dishevelled figures? They were occupying every inch of her office. The adjoining waiting room had been transformed into a second examining room. Robert had transfigured all furniture into beds and was busy levitating the . patients?  
  
He pushed her inside the waiting room and next to one of them, keeping his voice low and his features calm.  
  
"This is my assistant, Ginny. If you keep your mask and voice charm on she will never recognise you and you won't have to kill her. Don't give her a hard time. She's here to help you. Gin this is . the Dark Craw. Don't rush, don't let him belittle you and call for me if he does. I'll be just inside taking care of . the Walking Pole."  
  
Of all the wishes I have ever idly flung to the heavens why did the Fates see fit to grant me that one? Wish I could meet the night visitors? I could die a happy woman speculating they were Unspeakables. Was that your best shot Ginny-love? Allowances to cater for Robert's bills and mysterious enough deeds to call for his attention are traits also found among a never- heard-before group called Death Eaters. The equation is as simple as that: Aurors go to the St. Mungo's, were do Death Eaters go?  
  
"Ehm . Sir. do you think you can tell me what's wrong with you?"  
  
"I thought that was exactly what you were supposed to tell me."  
  
Oh, that was so bloody great. She woke up in the middle of the night to save the pity ass of her parents' murderers, and he dared treat her with something less than respect and gratitude. Well what else could you expect from a Death Eater Ginny-love? Death Eaters don't go round offering roses and Valentines; they have only one face, only one name, only one trait; murderers of your parents.  
  
"I should be leaving you alone then. Robert will see to you after he's finished with his patient. I'm sure there are others more cooperative in need of my help."  
  
"You are going nowhere unless you're finished with me woman."  
  
"Kindly unclench my hand or I'll hex your balls to oblivion."  
  
"That's been already taken care of. And don't dare me to a duel lassie. You'll be dead before casting a single spell."  
  
At least now she had something to work on. He was right. His genitals were well taken care of. She applied a salve, un-cursed them and was more than satisfied with her handwork when her patient answered to the treatment with a soft moan. What a perverse would cast Crucio on someone's genitals? Well, what would you do if threatened by a Death Eater? French-kiss him?  
  
"Besides the genitals problem is there anything else that matters?"  
  
"Lungs."  
  
Nothing wrong with the lungs. Just three broken ribs. No harm done. A charm and a potion. Let him not commend on the foul taste of the potion though. It is immensely ungrateful to comment on something that needs 3 days of preparation and 6 hours of brewing. He didn't. Nice.  
  
"Anything else?"  
  
"Left hand."  
  
That is man. Give me a challenge to work with. The upper skin around the wrist was missing. Black fabric had substituted it instead. Clearly under a stasis spell. She could discern the dark mark at the upper part of the forearm. Maybe she should lift the stasis and let the curse eat the skin to see what will happen to the mark.  
  
"How long ago did this happen?"  
  
"Two maybe two and a half hours ago. I cast a stasis spell. Doesn't hurt."  
  
"Didn't occur to you to move your robes away? I have to call Robert."  
  
"Can't you fix it?"  
  
"I have to remove the fabric and un-curse it simultaneously. Much to your disbelief I only have two hands and one wand."  
  
"Don't bother him. I'll do it."  
  
"You'll be busy fainting by pain."  
  
"Much to your disbelief I can endure pain. On the count of three, I lift the stasis and remove the fabric, you do the rest."  
  
Is he mental? Skin deterioration curses were compared to crucio as far as pain was concerned. Well he did sustain his genitals being cursed. What the hell? Let him try. Robert is trying to save a life in there. Worst that can happen to this lad is being left with a scar.  
  
"Three. two. one."  
  
He drew a generous oxygen dose. One that would normally made one's head spin. His hand was shaking violently and he couldn't work in detail. But he hadn't faint yet. He tried to vanish it but he missed and vanished the vase on Ginny's desk instead. She was still reciting the incantation, astonished with his endurance to pain. He finally managed to cast a Divestitio on himself. The offending piece of cloth vanished along with the rest of his robes. And mask. She finished with the incantation and instinctively turned to look at him.  
  
"Pr. Professor?"  
  
"I'd prefer you stick to the Dark Craw nickname. That way I wouldn't have to kill you. Or obliviate you."  
  
It never occurred to her that Severus Snape was a Death Eater as well; a spy, but a Death Eater no less. There was as much chance to meet her parent's murderer as was to meet Professor Snape. Judging by his file, he was lucky to be still alive. He was also extremely loaded to still have money to continue paying Robert. She performed a full body scanning charm. Nothing wrong.  
  
"Is there anything else amiss . Sir?"  
  
"Just sleep deprivation. I'll be on my way if you're kind enough to bring me my robes."  
  
Divestitio was a spell used to send one's clothes straight to the care of the elves - when available. She had never used it at the Burrow. She preferred undressing and cleaning them on her own. Not that they had an elf. And students were not allowed to use it at Hogwarts - by fear of using it for pranks. They had baskets instead. By the time she reached the laundry Milky had already cleaned, repaired and ironed his robes.  
  
Snape didn't thank her for nursing him. She didn't good night him. A few quick scribbles on a piece of a parchment later and Robert came out to threaten the next dark robed men not to hurt his assistant. That one was called the Mutant Screwt. More like the Mutant Troll judging by his size. Then came the Bloody Bludger and then the Butterbeer Kitty. A Death Eater called Butterbeer Kitty. She could never understand Robert. Said Robert, was still working on the Walking Pole. How bad could he be? After the first two or three incidents, the rest were just routine injuries. Nothing life threatening. That made her relax a bit. She was afraid she couldn't do it. But they were just bodies. Old, young, thin, fat, hurt, cursed bodies. There was never a face, only a mask. Currently she busied herself administering a cleansing potion. Somebody had hexed the Butterbeer Kitty with leg-blisters. Very painful even under a stasis.  
  
"You have to bring me a butterbeer as well."  
  
"Pardon me?"  
  
"That's why Rob calls me a Butterbeer Kitty. I have to wash my mouth with something after gulping his foul concoctions."  
  
"I'll summon some water for you."  
  
"Rob always gives me a butterbeer. It's not like I'm not paying for it."  
  
"Save your money this time. It'll only be water."  
  
"You're a real bitch you know."  
  
"I'm a bitch 'cause I don't want to mix my potion with the fat cream of a butterbeer? It's your legs that will take longer to come back to normal, not mine. Here. Suit yourself."  
  
She threw him the bottle. This Butterbeer Kitty had something extremely infuriating in his aura. First of all he talked too much - none of the others were in conversation mood. Then he talked with such arrogance as if he owned the place. And he could be no older than her. Maybe even someone she went to school with. Better shove this thought under your mental carpet Ginny-love. Not the best time to start questioning all your peers' allegiances.  
  
One after the other she finished with everyone in the room; 16 males, 2 females. All able to take life away but incapable of treating themselves back to health. How hard was it for someone who could cast Avada Kedavra, to learn a few healing spells? She was torn between sitting down to copy her hastily taken notes to the medical files and going into the examination room to help Robert. What could have been so wrong with the Walking Pole? Not that she felt sorry for him. But if she could do something to help... She knocked. No answer. She slightly opened the door.  
  
"Robert?"  
  
She saw him looking gloomily over a naked body.  
  
"Sorry Gin. He just passed away."  
  
A naked body she only knew too well. A naked body she had never seen naked. But seen it growing up, shaping, swimming, crying, laughing, joking, arguing. Percy Weasley lay there still. And naked.  
  
She kept her posture composed and just rushed out of the room. Percy was the mole. Percy was the one betraying them. Percy was responsible for Arthur and Molly, for Colin, for Marla, for Liza. Percy was dead. Ginny was drunk. 


End file.
